The Story of the Serpent
by Lady Sezza
Summary: PG to be safe. It's about Grima Wormtongue's life, kinda making him out to be a good guy. Anyone who empathizes with Grima, please read! Oh and I kind of made quite a bit of it up.
1. Default Chapter

This is probably an AU... yes it is. And its especially for people who empathize with Gríma!  
  
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Gríma Wormtongue  
  
Even as a small boy, he had been shunned. Gríma had been shunned all of his life, and it had made him bitter. He did not like other people, and did not talk to them if he could help it. It wasn't as if they ever listened to what he had to say, in any case. His mother and father had abandoned him when he was fifteen years old, leaving him their house and a small sum of gold - hardly enough for him to live on for very long. He never really understood why they left him - he could only suppose that it was because of his less-than-ordinary looks. His dark, greasy, straggly hair reminded one of rat's tails, or perhaps worms tails. He had several weeping pustules on his face, which drove him mad. His right eye was slightly cloudy which on the whole gave him a curious lop-sided appearance. However, Gríma was resigned to the fact that he was unable to do anything about his strange looks and tried to bear it. And he could bear it - it was other people who refused to accept him.  
  
When he was a small child, the other children had laughed at him and called him names and would not let him play with them. And it was these people who he would have to grow up with, and these people he sat with now, in the scribe room. For when he had discovered tat he had not enough money to live on, Gríma had gone to Meduseld, the residence of Théoden, King of Rohan and asked if he could have a job. The gatekeeper, Háma, had taken pity on him, for he was only young himself, and Gríma had found himself of the service of the king, waiting on his lesser needs.  
  
He had been there for five years or so when one day, he overheard the king speaking with his young nephew, Éomer. They spoke of the defences of Rohan. They needed to write a message to Denethor, steward of Gondor, but all the scribes were busy. Here, Gríma had seized his chance. He had not been idle during his years at Meduseld. With the help of the books in the library, he had taught himself to read and write and could easily compose letters. He stepped forward.  
  
"Excuse me, my Lords, but I am afraid I could not help overhearing - you need somebody to write a message to Gondor - I will do it if it pleases you."  
  
Théoden looked with interest at Gríma.  
  
"You can write, Gríma?" he said in surprise.  
  
"Yes, my Lord", nodded Gríma.  
  
"Well then, all is well", said Éomer, and took Gríma to the scribe room where there were several men sat around a table, all writing carefully. A few of them looked up curiously when they saw Gríma enter. Éomer sat him down.  
  
"You must write to Denethor and warn him that a party of Orcs is headed towards Osgiliath. They number two thousand and Rohan will be sending warriors to their aid. Are you clear?"  
  
Gríma nodded, and pulled a piece of parchment towards him and began to write... And he had been writing ever since. That was his job now, to write messages to neighbouring lands. He would have been fairly happy with his situation, were it not for his fellow scribes. They could never accept him. They teased him relentlessly about his peculiar appearance, and if one of the messages that he wrote was misunderstood in any way (which, it had to be said, was very rarely) they blamed him and said that he was a traitor, called him a liar. In fact, to most of the court at Edoras, he was known as Wormtongue - Gríma Wormtongue - whether those who said it meant it to be an insult or not, that had become his name, and he loathed it.  
  
"Wormtongue!" called a sharp voice, interrupting his stream of thoughts. "Stop daydreaming and continue writing that message. Or maybe..." the man sneered. "Maybe Master Wormtongue wants the message to be late? Being disloyal to Rohan again Wormtongue? Haven't you learned by now that it is no use? There's many of us, and only one of you."  
  
There was much laughter at this. Gríma stared at the scribe with hatred in his eyes. There it was again. He was an outcast separated from others. He was just about to retaliate cuttingly when a female voice spoke. Gríma startled, for there were no female scribes.  
  
"Why can't you just leave him be for once?"  
  
All heads turned to the door where the voice had come from. Éowyn the King's niece stood there.  
  
"Always you taunt him and call him cruel names, and yet he had done naught to deserve it", she said angrily.  
  
Gríma looked at her with interest. He had never really noticed her before, yet now he saw her, he wondered how he could have failed to miss her. She was young - about twenty at the most and she had a long river of beautiful golden hair he could hardly take his eyes off. Her face was fair - but at present it was screwed up in anger.  
  
"My lady, you only need look at him to see that he is a deceitful snake", retorted the scribe.  
  
"I do not care to judge people by their looks", she replied. "And nor do I look kindly on conversing about people as though they are not present, when quite clearly, they are."  
  
She stared at the scribe defiantly, her emerald eyes filled with anger. The scribe looked at her, speechless. She turned to Gríma.  
  
"My Lord, if these people give you any more grief, seek me, and tell me and I shall report it to my uncle."  
  
"Thank-you, my Lady." whispered Gríma, unable to take his eyes of her fair face. Éowyn left without another word. When she had gone, the whole room erupted with hilarity.  
  
"Am I to suggest," said one of the scribes, a fat one with piggy eyes, "that dear old Wormtongue had fallen in love with the King's niece?" and he roared with laughter. Gríma felt his face redden. It could not have been so plainly obvious, could it?  
  
"Éowyn wouldn't look twice at you if you were the last man left in Middle- earth", snapped another.  
  
Gríma rose slowly to his feet, steadying his anger with a deep breath.  
  
"I think I'm going to get some fresh air", he said as calmly as he could. And he left the room, left the scribes to their jesting.  
  
But no matter how much fresh air he breathed, it could not make him forget Éowyn. 


	2. Lord and High Councillor

Sliven - Thank-you so much for that review! It was really helpful, and I think I'm going to try and rewrite the first chapter to include some of your ideas. Actually I got a bit confused about the Éowyn bit as well when I was writing it. Thanks again! Yes.........in this chapter, Gríma becomes a councilor! Woo! Go Gríma!  
  
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LORD AND HIGH COUNCILLOR  
  
Over the next few days, Gríma could think of nothing but his own sorrows. He wandered the streets of Edoras as if he were in a bad dream that he could not wake from. What was the point in living, he asked himself bitterly. No one cared for him; no one ever would care for him. However, he was writing a message to the Gap of Rohan in the scribe room, when Háma sought him out.  
  
"Gríma Wormtongue? The King wished to speak with you", he said.  
  
Gríma was slightly surprised, but made his way to the Golden Hall nonetheless, and stood before the King.  
  
"You summoned me, my Lord?"  
  
"I did", the King replied. "I have been watching you for the past few days, and it seems to me that all is not well...I must ask you what is troubling you. You must not wallow in your miseries."  
  
Gríma stared at him, and wondered how, or why the king had been watching him. "My Lord, do not think to trouble yourself with my vapid affairs. They are uninteresting and certainly not important enough for your attention."  
  
"But I am interested", replied Théoden quietly. "Do you think the attitudes of my scribes have escaped my attention? Of course it has not. And that is why I have called you here, for I do not wish for you to be in their presence any longer. It is unjust."  
  
Gríma stood as if he had been slapped, as the manner of what the King was saying seeped into his mind.  
  
"You wish for me to leave Meduseld, Sire", he whispered shakily.  
  
But Théoden seemed taken aback.  
  
"Leave?" he said in surprise. "No, you misunderstood me. I do not want you to leave Meduseld. I want you to become my advisor, Gríma."  
  
"Me, Sire?" said Gríma incredulously.  
  
"I have watched you for a long time now, as you have no doubt gathered. And I perceive that, unassuming as you may see, you could indeed be of great aid to me in defending Rohan. You can give me council that I would value highly."  
  
"I...I hardly know what to say, my Lord", stuttered Gríma, surprised and flattered all at the same time. "Thank-you! Of course, I should be honoured."  
  
"Then it is settled", laughed Théoden.  
  
Just then, however, the doors of the Golden Hall opened and Éowyn rushed in looking troubled. She halted to see Gríma there but did not seem to dwell on it for long.  
  
"My Lord", she panted, as if out of breath. "There are Orcs attacking the Westfold. Éomer and Théodred have left with their men. They would not allow me to follow them."  
  
"I hardly think to disagree with them", replied Théoden. "A battle, however small an affair is not place for a young woman such as yourself."  
  
Gríma stared into her face with wonder, for despair was in her eyes.  
  
"But I am a shield-maiden!" she cried. "I am trained in these matters. I cannot stay here idle while my kin are in danger."  
  
"A shield-maiden maybe, but a woman nonetheless", answered Théoden. "And as for your being idle, there is no need. The men will expect food and beds when they return."  
  
It seemed to Gríma that Éowyn was struggling inside. Finally, biting back her tears, she bowed to Théoden, nodded to Gríma and left hurriedly.  
  
When she had departed, Théoden sighed.  
  
"She is young and brave...I fear it will be her downfall", he said heavily. "The shadow in the East grows stronger...our borders are having to withstand more and more attacks. It will affect us all in the end, willing or no."  
  
But Gríma was not paying him much attention. He could think only of how crest-fallen and desperate the Lady Éowyn had looked when her uncle had refused her permission to help fight the Orcs. He pitied her and yet wondered if he were in Théoden's position whether he would not have done the same.  
  
Thus it was, Gríma Wormtongue became councillor to Théoden King, and over the next few weeks, he surprised even himself on the soundness of the advice he was able to give. He dined with the King, and those closest to him such as Théodred, Éomer and Éowyn. They had many engaging discussions about tales of old in Rohan, and about lands far away, but Gríma preferred to listen and watch rather than talk himself. He particularly watched Éowyn, intrigued by her fair, determined face. When she became aware of him, sometimes she averted her eyes, and sometimes she held his gaze for a few seconds, but Gríma always continued to watch her under his eyelids.  
  
Now that he was close to the King, Gríma began to learn much of the goings on in the rest of Middle-earth. Sauron's forces were massing in the East. They looked now to Saruman in his fortress at Isengard for aid, but the Wizard had gone strangely quiet. Gríma dreaded the end to which this may come, but he continued to give the King council as was to the best of his ability.  
  
TO BE CONTINUED - in the next chapter, Gríma has his first proper confrontation with Éowyn. 


	3. Trapped

TRAPPED  
  
Gríma had been the High Councillor of Théoden King for three months to the day. Each passing day, the King placed more and more trust unto Gríma's words. Many of the people of the court wondered at this change, but there was no doubt that Gríma Wormtongue was high in the King's favour. This did not really stay their taunting, but on the whole, Gríma's life had improved, particularly as Théoden had begun to look upon him as a friend as well as a councillor.  
  
It was one day when Gríma had finished his duties and the King had excused him from his presence, that Gríma stood outside in the fresh cool air on the platforms of Meduseld, watching some of the Riders of Rohan retreating horses as they left to do battle on the borders of Rohan. They were Éomer and some of his men. Gríma wondered vaguely how many of them would return, when a small soft sob told him he was not alone. Turning sharply, he saw that Éowyn was standing a few feet away with tears running down her cheeks.  
  
"Why, my Lady!" he exclaimed anxiously. "Whatever is the matter?"  
  
"Always, they leave me here", she said in a voice that was barely audible, he eyes riveted to the distant steeds of the Riders on the horizon. "Always, they leave me here to watch and wait. They do not know how much I fear for them. How much I would give to be with them."  
  
"Yes of course.", Gríma muttered with a sudden realization, and came swiftly to her side. Caught by the tone of his voice, she turned to him curiously. "You are imprisoned here, are you not, my Lady?" he asked, taking her hand. "Imprisoned by your duties as a woman. You wish to go to war, do you not? But they will not permit you to. They are fools...", he whispered into her ear. "They underestimate you.what you are capable of." Éowyn looked up into his eyes in wonder. Gríma raised his hand to her cheek and caressed it.  
  
"I know your pain", he said gently. "You are trapped in the cage that is your gender and I am trapped in the cage that is my form. We are the same, you and I..."  
  
She closed her eyes, almost comforted. But when she felt his hair on her face, she snapped them open in alarm, and staggered backwards, freeing herself from his embrace. "You cannot understand me", she whispered. "How can you hope to understand me when I am beyond the comprehension of my own kin? Leave me alone!"  
  
And with that, she hastened back inside with a stifled sob, leaving Gríma standing alone.  
  
TO BE CONTINUED 


	4. Saruman's Promise

SARUMAN'S PROMISE  
  
Gríma, feeling utterly dejected, walked slowly to his favourite inn. He was slightly surprised to see that the common room was deserted, but he was too wrapped up in his thoughts to dwell on it. Not that he cared much. He felt too resentful towards other people to care. He just sat by the fire thinking about the silky golden hair and the soft pale skin he had witnessed only a few moments ago. So engrossed was he that he did not look up when a blast of cold air hit him as the door opened, nor when a hooded and cloaked old man stood and watched him for a few seconds before he spoke.  
  
"Gríma, son of Gálmód."  
  
Gríma looked up, and nodded silently.  
  
"I come to you with an offer of an opportunity of great wealth and importance, but first you must listen carefully to what I have to say."  
  
"Who are you that walks in such a guise?" asked Gríma suspiciously.  
  
"Do you not know?" asked the old man.  
  
Gríma remained silent. The old man, seeing that Gríma indeed did not know who he was, removed his hood to reveal a familiar wise face with its long silver hair and beard.  
  
"Saruman", gasped Gríma in surprise. "My Lord", he added hastily.  
  
"Be not afraid", said Saruman with a charming smile. "I have come to help you."  
  
"But.why would you want to help me?" inquired Gríma curiously.  
  
"Because I know that you are imprisoned in the cage that is your form. No- one wants to be near you, a cringing, and revolting shadow of a man who does not have anything of seeming importance to say. But you are wiser than they. You see things that they cannot and if only they would hearken to you, they would learn information that could be to their advantage in defending Rohan.But instead of this, they dub you 'Wormtongue' and shun you as if you were a witless worm, unworthy of their attention."  
  
Saruman was speaking in a low melodious voice, and Gríma listened, entranced.  
  
"And it is because of this, that I sought to find you. I need someone of your intellect in my service. I will of course reward you handsomely. What say you?"  
  
Gríma sat spellbound. Saruman's enchanting voice was echoing in his head. Of course he would help this charming man. He would be a fool not to.  
  
"My Lord, I should be proud to be of assistance to you," He replied eagerly. "What must I do?"  
  
"My dear Gríma, patience!" laughed Saruman, and the sound was like that of hundred streams tumbling gently down the mountainside. "First, I must swear you to my service. I must have your word that you will not betray me."  
  
"Betray you?" asked Gríma, puzzled.  
  
"You must read the terms of my service and sign the agreement", said Saruman, and he produced a scroll from the inside of his robes and handed it to Gríma. Curiously, Gríma unraveled it and read:  
  
I, Gríma so of Gálmód, do hereby swear to: Be forever faithful to my Lord and Master, Saruman the White and no other and to obey any orders Saruman the White gives me. Whether by my life or death I can be loyal to my master, I will. At the price of: .................................... Signed:  
............  
  
Below this was the second part of the agreement:  
  
I, Saruman the White, do hereby swear to reward Gríma Gálmód's son's service with .................................... unless death do take me.  
  
Signed:  
............  
  
When he had finished reading, Gríma looked up at the Wizard, who was watching him silently.  
  
"My Lord, will you not first tell me what it is you want of me?" questioned Gríma.  
  
"Not before you sign the agreement", said Saruman firmly.  
  
"Then I cannot do it", said Gríma with an effort and held the scroll out to Saruman, but he did not take it.  
  
"You disappoint me, Gríma", said Saruman reproachfully. "You have not yet considered your reward."  
  
"What reward could possibly be worth a life's pledge to something that I am ignorant of?" "Can you think of nothing?" asked Saruman quietly. "Perhaps I should come back when your mind is quite made up..."  
  
Gríma stared into the glowing embers of the fire. The fire was warm on his face, and his thoughts returned to Éowyn, and how flushed and heated her face was when he had touched it.  
  
"Éowyn..." he breathed.  
  
He turned and looked into Saruman's eyes.  
  
"If you can give me Éowyn, then I will give you anything you ask of me, even if it costs me my very soul", said Gríma shakily.  
  
If Saruman was surprised, he did not show it.  
  
"It shall be so," he nodded. "Will you sign now?"  
  
Gríma silently inclined his head. Saruman gave him a warm smile and handed him a black quill. Gríma took it, took at steadying breath and wrote in the space which would define his reward: 'Éowyn of Rohan' and then he signed his name.  
  
Saruman smiled encouragingly at him, and then filled out his own part of the agreement. When it was done, he replaced it carefully in his robes. Saruman leant forward to Gríma.  
  
"Now", he said quietly. "This is what I want you to do..."  
  
TO BE CONTINUED 


End file.
